


Eliminated

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst, Biting, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Going to Hell, Injury, Love/Hate, M/M, Sort of a Plot, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, putting the "sex" in "deus ex machina"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: This is how 2018 ends.It’s the top of the fifth, and everything is going wrong for the Rockies.Nolan Arenado has been condemned to what seems like the seventh circle of baseball hell: down 0-2 in the NLDS after being pantsed on national TV in Milwaukee, facing elimination in front of a restless home crowd, and already down 0-2 because nobody knows how to pitch.





	Eliminated

This is how 2018 ends. 

It’s the top of the fifth, and _everything_ is going wrong for the Rockies. 

Nolan Arenado has been condemned to what seems like the seventh circle of baseball hell: down 0-2 in the NLDS after being pantsed on national TV in Milwaukee, facing elimination in front of a restless home crowd, and already down 0-2 because nobody knows how to pitch.

It’s misty and cloudy and barely above forty degrees outside. The wind whips across the field, unkind and biting as Nolan stands at third and watches Marquez throw ball after ball after ball. 

There’s one out, and Christian Yelich is on first, and Ryan Braun is at the plate. It’s a 3-1 count. 

There’s a sharp crack, and the ball flies somewhere in Carlos’ direction. He’s overruns it. He’s a hundred-fifty feet deep, with ice-blocks for hands, and Carlos fumbles to scoop up the ball. Everything happens in slow motion: Braun is three quarters of the way to first when Nolan notices that Yelich is going to try for third. Carlos tries to cut him down but he’s a hair too late, and wound up on adrenaline like Carlos usually is. The ball is high, and Nolan jumps to make the catch, snaring the flying ball like a cat swatting a bird. But the Milwaukee outfielder is too fast; Nolan’s foot comes down an inch off the bag as Christian slides in feet-first, driving the spikes of his right foot into Nolan’s left shin with full force. 

God, it _hurt_. Nolan crumples from the impact, hip first into the infield mud, the ball feebly rolling out of his glove toward the third-base dugout. “Fucking shit, sorry man!” Yelich hollers as he breaks for home. Braun ends up on second as Nolan hobbles painfully to corral the errant baseball. 3-0, Milwaukee.

The crowd groans, and the groans fade into disappointed silence. The umps take thirty seconds to review it and call the slide incidental. Getting spiked is sometimes just what happens when the precision of the sport Nolan loves goes horribly awry, and hell, it’s the perfect microcosm of the NLDS for his team. _Everything gone horribly awry_.

_“Sorry, my ass.”_ Nolan growls to himself - nothing seems broken, thankfully - and wipes the mud off his hands. He narrows his eyes toward the Brewers’ dugout, and then looks down at his leg, where several spots of bright red blood are beginning to seep through his white pants.  

***

He’s lucky the remaining two outs are a strikeout and a popup to second and he doesn’t have to exert himself, as he finds himself limping and stewing throughout the rest of the inning and all the way into the break.

Nolan’s mind is a toxic mess of pain-dulling endorphins and wounded pride as he slumps down in the dugout. He waves the trainer off and says it’s just a little scrape. He does the same to Coach Bud. His teammates talk in his general direction but he can’t even process what they’re saying. His hip is sore, his leg is throbbing, he’s fucking _cold_ , and he’s slowly coming to the dull realization that this _is_ the last game of 2018, and they’ll all be staring down the barrel of _well, maybe next year_ in about 90 minutes, with the way things are going. 

Nolan puts on his sweatshirt, pulls the hood far over his head, and lets his thoughts turn increasingly bitter. _He could’ve been NL MVP_. He _would_ have, most likely; Freeman had stopped hitting, Carpenter cooled off in September as the Cards played themselves out _again_ , and there’s no way Baez would’ve had the votes with Chicago’s ridiculous end-of-season collapse. No, it would’ve been him on that podium, until that _goddamn punk_ in Milwaukee showed up and _made the whole league his bitch. God._ Nolan thinks, his brain set on edge further. _Fuckin’ Yelich._ I _fucking hate him!_ It’s beyond mere competitiveness: Yelich is younger than he is and goddamn _phenomenal_ , the kind of phenomenal that would’ve probably driven his team to a hundred-twenty wins if they had him. The jealousy is enough to drive Nolan cross-eyed.

Pretty soon, the Brewers will celebrate on _his_ field and play for the National League Pennant, spray champagne around somewhere in _his_ stadium, and Nolan will go home to California. Shit, maybe he’ll get traded to the A’s so he can stay there instead of freezing his ass off in Colorado.

And even though Nolan has a reputation as being (admittedly) a bit short-tempered, he’ll never admit to anyone that _all this_ hurts more than his leg ever could. 

***

As predicted, the Rockies lose. Badly. What Marquez starts the bullpen finishes, and Nolan stops paying attention when they’re down by six runs. 

The defeated Rockies file into the clubhouse, with Nolan limping the slowest. It’s almost entirely quiet over the next hour as his teammates exchange a few hugs and gather their gear from their lockers. DJ invites everyone for drinks; Nolan declines, and after showering, he slinks toward the trainer’s room and away from the inevitable string of reporters and writers that will pop in to ask _what went wrong_. He doesn’t want to talk, as he’d probably say something he’d regret anyway.

He puts in his ear-buds and turns the heavy metal up to just shy of pain-inducing. He grabs a cold pack from the freezer for his leg, swallows a couple Ibuprofen, flops back-first onto the trainer’s table, and closes his eyes.

_Everyone deals differently with being eliminated._ It’s abrupt and painful and is difficult to cope with, but everyone has their mechanisms. Carlos will go get smashed with DJ and Trevor. Bud will go home and complain to his wife, and she’ll listen. Wade will read a story to his daughter. 

All Nolan has is his dark condo, Netflix, and a carton of leftover Chinese food. Maybe a few pages of the Bible. Even with the long season and enforced loneliness that baseball can bring sometimes, losing is especially isolating. Outside of the hugs and high-fives from the 25 other knuckleheads he’s shared the summer with, the only human contact he’s had recently was several random selfies with fans and with his mother. At the All-Star Break. 

And with _Christian Yelich_ , although the thought of that causes his hands to reflexively curl into fists. _It would be funny if it were someone else’s predicament._

Nolan is simply resigned to having no peace of mind today, and soon feels himself drifting off. 

 ***

It’s around eight when he wakes up. 

All of Nolan’s muscles ache as he walks into the empty clubhouse, now dark except for the purple backlights above the lockers. He spends a few minutes tidying up the strewn mess of jerseys and batting gloves that he’s left in his locker, and decides he’ll head out and come pick up his bags in the morning after Coach Bud’s end-of-season interviews. 

It’s somewhere between the tunnel from the visitor’s clubhouse and the concourse that Nolan sees him. He’s five steps ahead, wearing Beats headphones and silently rocking out to whatever he’s listening to, duffel bag slung over his shoulders. _That celebration must’ve taken a long time!_

_Fucking Yelich!_ Just the sight of him is enough to send Nolan’s blood pressure dangerously high. Almost betraying himself, Nolan walks as fast as he can, his leg trying its hardest to dampen him from _running_ , and he aggressively slams his shoulder into Christian’s as he passes him.

“Hey, _fuck!_ ” Christian drops his bag and yells after Nolan as he walks away. “What was that for!?”

Nolan stops.

“I said I was _sorry_ , okay!?” 

A slight echo. The third baseman says nothing, but turns around slowly and rolls up his pant leg. He’ll _show him._ There’s no bleeding now, but his leg is swollen, bruised and purple-red.  

“Shii _iiiit._ ” Christian says, drawing the word out into two syllables. “I…uh…I got you pretty good. Didn’t mean to. You…do know that, right?”

“Yeah.”  

He says nothing more. Nolan lets his eyes meet Christian’s for a second. He doesn’t believe him entirely, but his gaze appears sincere. For the shortest moment, Nolan finds himself slightly taken with Christian’s eyes, so dark they’re almost black, with his messed-up hair and prominent cheekbones and mildly concerned expression, and he has to turn around again immediately.

No. _No. No. No. No._ No. The shame of the fleeting thought falls like lead in Nolan’s stomach. _He hadn’t thought this way since Asheville. Not_ this _again. Not now. Not before the long off-season. And certainly_ not _Yelich._

Nolan starts walking away, back toward the Rockies’ clubhouse. _Now he’s done it. The stress has gotten to him and he’s_ finally _cracked. Maybe he should have gone out and gotten smashed after all. He has to get out of here._

“Hey, wait.” Christian catches up with him, making him stop again. “Y-you guys played well out there today.”

Nolan just shrugs and looks down.

“It’s really hard.” The young outfielder says. “Losing, like that. I get it.” 

“So? Are you here to gloat or…or…” The heat of anger is starting to prickle Nolan again, coupled with a kind of frustration he hasn’t known for a long time. It’s bordering on panic. 

“No, _c’mon_.” Christian sounds slightly irritated. “It’s not like…why would I…c’ _mere._ ” 

Before Nolan can even respond, Christian pulls him into a friendly hug. “Good game, man. Really.”

Nolan’s emotions pinball wildly from annoyance to awkwardness to a weird sort of excitement that ticks up his heart rate. Christian _is_ undeniably comforting, his hands tight against Nolan’s back. He’s slightly taller than Nolan. He’s warm and smells like clean laundry and the tiniest hint of cologne, and and all Nolan can do is offer a deflated sigh. _That jealousy again._   _He must be an incredible teammate_. _But what Nolan thinks is something more than that. He doesn’t know quite what to make of it._

“If you gotta cry, just fucking cry. It’s okay.”  

_They tell you how to do everything in baseball. How to swing, how to catch, what medicines you can and can’t take for a cold, how late to stay out, what not to eat before a game. They don’t tell you what to do when it blows up in the playoffs and you get eliminated. They don’t tell you how to interact with your opponent, especially in this situation._  

_Nobody would envy him._

_But he’s not going to cry._

_Not here. Not when he feels like_ this.

“Thanks.” Nolan pulls back, but his fingertips rest on Christian’s elbow for a second. _He really doesn’t like where his head is going._

Again, their eyes meet. Much closer, this time. _And there it is again_. Rage and a hint of arousal shred through him, just the culmination of _everything_ that’s gone wrong, and his blood pounds in his ears. Nolan is definitely _not_ gay, but he’s so close and Yelich is _fucking gorgeous,_ and his resolve simply disappears. Adrenaline takes over. He shoves Christian against the wall and crushes his mouth with his own. _Hard_. 

It’s obvious that Christian is surprised. Nolan has _no idea_ what he’s doing, and it’s just a second before he pulls away, half-expecting that he’s going to get punched. But Christian flashes a sweet half-smile, and he grabs Nolan by the top of his sweatshirt and yanks him back. Christian tastes like beer and is probably a little drunk, but Nolan doesn’t care. He’s frozen and he isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands at first, but Christian keeps whispering _it’s okay_ against his lips and Nolan brushes his palms along Christian’s cheeks and locks his fingers together behind his neck. It’s _good_ , impulsive and dangerous, and Nolan feels like he might faint.  

“Yaknow.” Christian says against the corner of Nolan’s mouth, “I could apologize _properly_. None of this hand-wavin’ shit.” Fingers to his cheek, he tilt’s Nolan’s head and mumbles something in his ear that makes Nolan’s eyes go wide.  

_Nolan knows he should say no. He_ can’t stand _Yelich. Can he? This is_ wrong _, and the easiest course of action would be to stop, apologize gauchely and profusely for being emotional, and go home._

“Okay.” Nolan says against his will. “My clubhouse. Now.” 

_Everyone deals differently with being eliminated._ It’s abrupt and painful and is difficult to cope with, but everyone has their _mechanisms._

_What are you_ doing _, Nolan?_

_***_

They barely make it into the dimly-lit Rockies clubhouse before Christian has Nolan laid flat on the carpet (“so you don’t have to stand on that leg”, Christian says), with his shoes and sweatpants off. Nolan is already so hard it’s starting to become painful, but Christian makes fast work of everything. He climbs over Nolan, leans over, and runs his tongue over the head of Nolan’s cock. Nolan hasn’t done this in a long time. It feels insanely good, and it’s a few moments before Christian gets a little more vigorous and finds a rhythm, his teasing turning into more intense lapping and sucking, igniting all of Nolan’s nerves at once. 

It’s absurdly hot to watch: Christian on top of him, hand tight over Nolan’s balls, his pretty mouth soft and _so_ wet around his cock. Nolan wants _more_ ; he feels his hips starting to jerk upward reflexively and Christian pulls off, hands gripping his hips commandingly, and orders him to _stay down._  

_I hate you._ Nolan keeps thinking through the white-hot haze of his desire. _I hate you. God, I fucking_ hate _you_!  He could’ve strangled him a few hours ago, but he’s completely in thrall to _this_ Christian, who is sweet and sexy and eager to please, and he figures it’s going to make a _mess_ out of him if the Rockies and Brewers have to play next season. _He’d go 0-for-infinity at the plate._ His thoughts can’t go further because Christian suddenly does something with his tongue that nearly drops Nolan clean through the floor, and Nolan wonders if Christian’s ever done this before.

He wants to tell him how goddamn _good at this_ he is, but Nolan can’t _talk_ , so he just tugs Christian’s hair affectionately and offers small moans of encouragement. Opponent or not, he realizes he would take _everything_ Christian would give him. He wants to pin him to the floor and fuck his mouth until he’s breathless, to ravage every line and plane and point of him until his head is finally satiated and blank.

Within minutes, Nolan feels familiar heat building low in him. _He’s going to lose it soon._ He’s close, his nails curling into the carpet, thighs bucking up against Christian’s powerful arms when Christian stops and looks up at him invitingly. 

“W-Why?” Nolan asks, less of a question than it is a pathetic whine, “Why’d you _fucking stop?_ ”  

“ _Fuck_ me.” Christian orders. 

“ _Absolutely_.” Nolan responds in a single breath, without thinking at all. 

Nolan sits up, his hands steady on Christian’s shoulders. After a couple of knowing glances, he pushes the outfielder onto his back. Half-naked, Nolan climbs on top of Christian, hands exploring down his arms, his face buried in the hollow of Christian’s throat, where Nolan feels his pulse, rapid against his lips. Nolan drags his lower teeth upward, harder, inward, and _harder_ until Christian inhales sharply and Nolan feels his cock twitch against his thigh in response. 

_“Nolan.”_ Christian chuckles softly, almost impatiently. “ _C’mon. Now._ Fuck _me, Nolan._ ” The third baseman shudders; hearing his name said like _that_ gives him goosebumps. 

_Absolutely. He’s going to take Yelich_ right here _on the floor of his own clubhouse. Nolan is going to make him_ howl _and and he doesn’t care._

Nolan can’t stop _biting._ He pulls Christian’s dark hair roughly, jerking his head to the side, and sinks his teeth aggressively into the hottest point under Christian’s jaw, and Christian swears and moans in approval, egging Nolan on further. Nolan jams his hands clumsily underneath the younger man’s shirt, his skin almost searing hot under his fingertips. Christian’s breathing is fast and ragged now, his hands wandering downward from Nolan’s waist, and Nolan is actually _shaking_. He wants Christian _so badly_ that he can’t even fathom it anymore. 

“Mm _mm._ _Nolan._ ” Christian repeats, hands cupping Nolan’s ass greedily.

Everything’s fuzzy. He’s _blind with lust._ He’s legitimately _nervous_. Maybe he’s going to actually pass out before anything more happens.

“Nolan!” 

The edge of reason starts to look funny. Everything is black, and then everything is white.

_“Nolan!”_  

The fourth time. It’s not Christian’s voice. 

***

“Nolan?” 

The first thing he hears is the dull hum of fluorescent lighting, and bits and pieces of conversation between two people. The first voice, he finally comprehends, is DJ’s. 

“Yeah, he just said he was going home.” 

“Texted this morning, but no answer. Saw the light on in here and wondered a bit.” Ian. Ian is the second voice. 

“...Sixteen hours? God, he must’ve been fuckin’ _wiped._ ”

He opens his eyes, and is staring at the ceiling tiles in the trainer’s room. The trainer’s table is hard under his back. He’s sweaty and sticky, his head is stuffy and foggy, and he’s probably got exaggerated morning wood, but his teammates have arguably seen worse.

“Dude, you all right?” DJ helps Nolan sit up, and removes his ear-buds from around his neck. DJ has heavy bags under his eyes and is likely hungover. “You were just _gone_. How’s the leg?”  

And suddenly Nolan remembers _all of it,_ and he gets up, walks over to the sink, and immediately splashes hot water on his face and in his mouth. “Fine. I just…ugh…woke up a little funny here.” _He feels sick to his stomach, but he doesn’t know whether it’s nausea or…_

The door opens, cutting off Nolan’s train of thought, and it’s Coach Mike. “There’s sleepin’ beauty himself.” The bench coach laughs at his cheesy humor. “Coffee’s in the break room. Get some donuts and snacks and things, and you’re up next with Coach Bud. Carlos is running a little late, so you’ve got a few yet.” Mike ducks back out almost as soon as he had appeared.

_Shit._ The goddamn _interviews._ Nolan groans loudly. “Oh come on, drama king.” DJ elbows him as he walks out. “S’just Bud! You know the routine. Go in there, rant it out, bitch about losing, and tell him what’s on your mind.” 

_Which, of course, is only one thing right now, although Nolan will never mention it to_ anyone. He tries like hell to purge it from his conscious thought as he makes the familiar trip from the hall to the bathroom to the break room. He stands outside of the manager’s office and shotguns a cup of black coffee. _He closes his eyes. All he wants is to steady his nerves, but he sees a millisecond of dim purple half-light and two very dark eyes and it’s_ unmistakeable _whose they are._ He feels a flush building upwards from his collar and bites his thumbnail to distract himself. _C’mon._ _Just some crossed wires in your brain. Stop this._

Carlos comes out with a wry smile a few minutes later. Nolan breathes deeply, walks in, and slams the door behind him with a sort of flat finality. 

_Stop this._

_Over. Eliminated._

And that is how 2018 ends. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'Cept for the Rox losing, didn't happen. No disrespect or slander meant whatsoever. I'm just a salty Cubs fan without a horse in this race and I normally don't write Baseball RPF but I got shitfaced after watching the NLDS and this happened.
> 
> No beta.


End file.
